


Such Sweet Sorrow

by Anonymous



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Heavy Angst, Homunculus Riza Hawkeye, Possession, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Sexual Assault, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Resurrected from the the ashes and outfitted with a host body, Lust visits her killer for revenge.
Relationships: Lust/Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40
Collections: Anonymous





	Such Sweet Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> this is as much an exploration of Lust's character as it is an excuse to torture Mustang (cuz i love to hurt my faves) also i think lust hawkeye is something we as a fandom should consider more often. i had a lengthy car discussion with my friend about Lust's sadism and how her personality being defined by the concept of lust (including bloodlust) makes her concerned with vanity and satisfaction, and how murder and sex are basically interchangeable for her. roy murdered her, she wants to murder him back, he's off-limits due to being a sacrifice, so...
> 
> yeah. mind the tags on this one.

“Are you sure you won’t become one of us?”

The homunculus Pride’s voice is like cold water down Riza’s spine. It is touching her, under her clothes somehow, devoid of warmth or substance but undeniably _there_ all the same, squeezing her skin and immobilizing her limbs.

“One of your pawns, you mean?” Riza says. Sweat rolls down the side of her neck but her voice does not tremble.

Pride caresses the column of her throat with a shadow, the threat unspoken. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I lost a sister recently.”

Riza swallows. “Does a thing like you feel grief over a loss like that?”

The presence that encompasses her tenses slightly, coiling tighter around her, and for a second she cannot breathe. Pride’s voice slithers into her ears and makes itself at home in her skull. “A thing like me has no use for grief, it’s true. But her death was annoying for other reasons, and I think a family reunion is in order.”

The compression around Riza’s throat eases, and she gasps for air as the shadows retreat. When she spins around, she sees nothing but stone and darkness. The presence is gone, but in its place is a heavy dread.

* * *

The hum of machinery fills the stale underground air. Envy keeps watch of the new Lust, bouncing their knee in irritation. They have better things to be doing, and looking at her face makes their stomach clench unpleasantly. They don’t think it’s very fair that Lust gets to wear the face of Roy’s beloved Lieutenant—that was their whole thing! They had planned to mess with him like that at some point, but now the thought has little appeal.

Lust’s eyes flutter, and Envy stills their leg.

“Welcome back, sis,” Envy says with a grin, leaning over her prone form.

Lust lifts her hand and draws it through her hair, bringing some of it forward to look at it. She frowns upon seeing its colour and pushes herself into a sitting position. “Blonde hair doesn’t suit me,” she complains with a sigh. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and lets out an affronted gasp. “Trousers?! Envy, this is abominable! I need a dress this instant!”

Envy throws their head back and cackles at her misery.

* * *

It’s well past midnight when Roy gives up. He’s been hunched over his desk since the moment he got home, trying to figure out a plan to get in touch with his scattered team, to develop some sort of strategy to get out of this hole he’s dug for himself. Eventually the cramps in his shoulders and the blurriness in his eyes force him to abandon the scribbled notes and half-formed thoughts. He falls, shirtless and despairing, into bed, and sinks into sleep like a man overboard.

Her voice comes to him as if he’s dreaming. Hawkeye rarely sounds so hushed, so playful, but it’s undeniably her voice calling him.

“Colonel… Open your eyes, Colonel.”

Roy groans sleepily and notices the fingers trailing gently down his cheek. He turns towards it, blinking unfocused eyes in the darkness of his room. The curtains flutter beside the open window, and the streetlight outside illuminates the figure sitting poised on the edge of his bed.

“...Lieutenant?” Roy mumbles, groggy.

His eyes focus, finally, and when he truly sees her, his heart begins to pound.

She appears to him like a spectre of the Hawkeye he knows. Hair normally so carefully kept spills loose across her strong shoulders, which gleam, alabaster and exposed by the strapless dress she would never wear. Strange, palmless gloves stretch up to her elbows, matching the wine colour of the dress. To see her wear makeup is to almost not recognize her at all, the dark eyeshadow and cherry lip far too bold for his modest, reserved lieutenant. Even more alien is the fear that takes hold of his gut when she smiles—her smile has only ever brought him comfort and joy, until now.

“...You’re not the Lieutenant,” Roy realizes in a whisper.

She leans close to him, sliding one hand up his arm in a touch that is far too sensual. Her breath smells of flowers and blood. “You’re right, and you’re wrong,” she says, voice low and sultry and _just like Riza’s_ but Riza would never do anything like this, and so it can’t really be her.

Her hand tightens around his arm like a vice. She lifts him like he weighs nothing and pushes him against the headboard of his bed with more force than a human should be capable of. It winds him. From this new angle the light behind her finally grazes her chest and Roy’s blood goes cold when he recognizes the symbol emblazoned just below her collarbones: the red ouroboros.

“You seem frightened, Colonel,” the homunculus murmurs. Her too-familiar eyes flit back and forth between his, watching his expression closely, eagerly. “Where are your flames? Will you burn me again?”

Those words are like a knife between his ribs, and Roy recoils. His breathing becomes rapid; sweat gathers on his brow. Her grip on his upper arm is bruising, and he can’t tear his eyes from hers.

“You’re a homunculus,” he says, trying desperately to rationalize, to retain any part of his sanity.

“We were never formally introduced, even after you felt it appropriate to plunge your hand inside my chest; my name is Lust,” she says, still uncomfortably close to his face. Her hair dangles over his chest and he feels the absurd urge to tuck it behind her ear. “Your Lieutenant works out too much—she’s lost her feminine figure. This body wouldn’t be my first choice, but it’s worth it to meet you here like this, Roy.”

He flinches, hearing his name. Hawkeye never calls him by his first name. Even before she became his subordinate she hesitated to speak it, always so formal, and the wrongness of hearing it fall from her lips in this setting sets his heart to palpitating. He wets his lips and Lust’s eyes flicker down to watch his tongue as it darts out.

“Am I supposed to fall for this?” Roy bluffs, pretending he can’t feel sweat on his back. “I know one of you is a shapechanger. I saw that woman homunculus’ stone disintegrate into dust. There should be no coming back from that.”

Lust finally releases her deathgrip on his arm and slides both of her arms up around his shoulders, draping herself over him. He’s never seen this much of Hawkeye’s cleavage before—she usually wears such conservative clothing, even when she’s not in uniform—and he avoids looking, electing to stare at her left eyebrow instead.

“Don’t you want to hold your Lieutenant, Roy?” Lust teases. The only reason Roy doesn’t push her off is that the strength she displayed before in grabbing him was frightening. His closest pair of spark gloves are in the drawer of the bedside table—with her on him like this there’s no way for him to get them without her noticing and preventing it. His gun is even farther away.

“Enough games. The Fuhrer told me outright that you want me alive for whatever you’re planning—drop the act and leave me alone.” He says it firmly, with authority, and Hawkeye’s eyes glitter in the dim light.

“No tricks, Colonel. It really is your Lieutenant here in your bed. I’ll even prove it to you.” She takes his hand and guides it to the back of her shoulder. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s feeling is scar tissue.

Roy snatches his hand back and stares at her, heart pounding loud in his ears. “No,” he whispers. They should not know about her back. No one should. The only way they could make such a faithful recreation was if they had seen Hawkeye’s back themselves, and she would never willingly show it to anyone, let alone the homunculi. Roy’s heart is in his throat over the implications.

“Yet another reason I hate this body,” Lust says, curling her lip. “You really did a number on this poor girl. Living with such an ugly disfigurement… no wonder she covered up so much. I assume it was you, at least. You burned lots of women in Ishval, didn’t you? But to think you enjoyed it so much that you would turn your flames on your own Lieutenant…”

Roy squeezes his eyes shut. His whole body is stiff and his jaw clenches so hard that his teeth ache. Hawkeye’s stolen body is sitting practically in his lap, one arm still looped around his shoulders like an embrace, and he can’t do anything about it. He can’t believe this is happening.

His lack of response amuses her, based on the throaty chuckle he hears. She takes his face in her free hand, thumb and fingers pressing into his cheeks and immobilizing his head. His eyes fly open and the look in her eye is _predatory._

“The way you killed me was excruciating, Roy Mustang,” she informs him in a velvety tone. “I am going to make you suffer for it, and it will be the hands of the woman you love so much who carries it out. That is the only reason I am satisfied with such an unflattering form.”

“Please,” he whispers, hoarse. “Let her go. Give her body back—I don’t… I…”

“Shh,” she soothes. Her gloved thumb presses against his lips, gently at first, then insistently, until she forces it into his mouth. He tries to turn his head away but her grip is strong and he’s powerless to prevent her pushing her thumb down on his tongue.

Humiliation sits high in his chest. He should be fighting back more, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to raise a hand against the visage of Hawkeye, even one this perverted and wrong. He can’t handle the sight of her anymore so his eyes snap shut again.

“I want to hurt you,” she breathes against his cheek, the air both sweet and rotten. “You have no idea how much pain I want to see you in.” Her thumb presses harder, her nail digging in now, and he gags on the discomfort. Unable to swallow, saliva pools.

Slowly, carefully, he takes her wrist in one hand. He expects resistance, but to his surprise she willingly releases his tongue when he pulls her hand away from his mouth. It prompts him to look at her again, but her face is stony and unreadable, which is honestly a more familiar expression to Hawkeye than the honeyed smile.

“Give her back,” Roy intones, ignoring the stutter in his heart.

“You would have her differently than this?” Lust murmurs as she caresses the back of his neck. “In your bed, late at night, whispering sweet nothings? Isn’t that what every man wants from a woman?”

He shakes his head, defensive, and to his horror she leans even closer, like she’s trying to kiss him. He pulls away, but there’s only so far he can go before her lips are on his, feverishly hot and surprisingly soft. Roy succumbs to the warmth of it for only a second before he jerks, shoving her chest and twisting his head to break the kiss. He dislodges her just enough that he has the space to roll out of bed, so he does. His feet hit the floor but she’s on him again in an instant, grabbing his arm and twisting it painfully behind him. He grunts and struggles, then stills when he feels her breath on his ear.

“You’ve never kissed her before, have you?” Lust purrs. “But I bet you’ve thought about it. Was it as good as you hoped? What else have you thought about, Roy?”

“Why are you doing this?” Roy asks, strained. He eyes the drawer where his spark gloves reside—it’s within arms reach now, but would he even be able to use them? He imagines holding his fingers up to Hawkeye’s face, poised to snap. The thought of seeing fright in her eyes, scared of _him,_ hurts far worse than what Lust is doing to his arm.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Lust presses her chest against his back and draws her other hand down the front of his chest, nails dragging lightly. “I want you to suffer, Roy. Believe me, if my Father didn’t need you this would be so, _so_ much worse. I would tear you to _ribbons.”_ She draws downwards on his chest a little more sharply, scratching him, and he hisses between his teeth.

“Since I can’t kill you,” she whispers, directly into his ear. “Perhaps I’ll do other things to you. What will be enough to make you raise a hand against your woman?” Her tongue flicks out to touch the spot behind his ear and he flinches at the ticklish sensation.

An unfamiliar hopelessness settles over Roy’s shoulders. Normally he likes to remain optimistic, willing to jump through any number of improbable hoops in order to win out a situation in the end, but there is nothing he can do here. He is physically and psychologically at her mercy, because he won’t be able to bring himself to stop her. He’d always been weak to Hawkeye, but it had never been turned against him like this before. She was always so kind and disciplined, it never occurred to him that this could happen.

“Do whatever you want to me, monster,” he spits. “Just tell me this one thing. Can she be saved?” He doesn’t have much faith that she’ll answer honestly, but it’s worth it to him to try. He wants to believe that he’ll see Hawkeye again—the _real_ Hawkeye, _his_ Hawkeye.

Lust releases his arm so that both her hands can roam his bare chest, and she hums happily beside his ear. “So noble, you are. I really do like you, Roy. I see why she was so devoted. But I don’t think you have what it takes to save her. How _disappointing.”_

She scratches his chest again, hard enough to bring blood welling to the surface, and he tries to thrash but he can’t escape her embrace. Every place where her skin touches his (her breasts pressed against his back, her palms flat over his pectorals, her chin slotted neatly in the curvature of his neck) burns with unnatural heat, like she’s running a fever. Her hands move upwards, towards his throat. She cups his adam’s apple, forces his head to tilt back.

“Such a pretty man,” Lust cooes, pressing a lipsticked kiss to the side of his neck. “I’d almost rather be you. But then I wouldn’t get to see your face as you fuck your precious Lieutenant.”

“Stop,” he growls, not because he thinks she will, but because he has to.

“Get back on the bed,” she whispers, and it is clearly a command, not a request. Despite the fear, despite the pain, her tone and timbre are still enough to send a little _zing_ down Roy’s spine. He feels disgusted with himself.

Lust withdraws her hand from around his throat and turns towards his bedside table. He can see plainly now the remnants of Hawkeye’s tattoo, red ink made grey in the poor light, and his heart clenches painfully. The scars and carefully placed alchemic lines shift with her muscles as Lust pulls open the drawer. He hasn’t seen her back since the aftermath of Ishval, when he helped her care for the burns.

Roy glances at the door, thinks about making a break for it, and knows there is no escape. Still, he has to try. He gets as far as a hand on the doorknob before a long, thin spear punctures the wood of the door mere inches from his face, pinning it shut. He traces the spear back to Lust’s finger, and she is frowning at him. The expression makes him feel hysterical, because it’s the same look Hawkeye gives him when he admits to having unfinished paperwork.

“It was worth a shot,” he says, releasing the doorknob.

She watches him carefully this time as he mounts the bed, heart once again in his throat. He hates this, the surreality of it, the fact that Lust is _right_ on some level—sometimes his thoughts of Hawkeye had been less than pure. But he’s always been careful not to let those thoughts translate into actions.

It doesn’t mean that he wants this. He wants her to want him back, after all. It’s not just about her body.

Lust shuts the bedside drawer, and Roy is surprised to see his spark gloves in her hand. She perches daintily on the edge of his bed again, and takes his right hand. He gives a resistant tug but unsurprisingly she does not let him free, and instead slides the glove over his fingers.

“Why are you arming me?” he asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

Lust guides his gloved hand to cup her cheek, _Hawkeye’s_ cheek, and smiles at him. “Maybe the danger turns me on. Maybe I know that you won’t use them. Maybe I _want_ you to use them, so I can watch you finish what you started on this poor girl’s back. You don’t know.”

Roy flinches again, tries to pull away again, but she keeps his hand where it is, and her smile curls into a grin, ghoulish and cruel.

“Kiss me, Colonel,” she says, girlish and saccharine with mockery.

He doesn’t move, so she leans in for him, forcing his lips open with her own. And it’s a _good_ kiss, and that makes Roy so incredibly _angry_ for a moment, that he can’t enjoy this because it’s the homunculus doing it, not Riza. She is stealing this from him, from both of them. That burst of emotion carries him forward; he grabs the other side of her face too and kisses back, hard. She wants him to be miserable, to fight her at every step, so maybe giving in can be a way to rebel—but no, she just lets out a pleased hum and licks her way inside his mouth.

Frustrated and disgusted that it didn’t work to throw her off, Roy breaks away again but Lust just starts sucking on his neck instead. The hard pulses of her tongue and teeth go straight to his crotch and he groans. He shoves her shoulders desperately but she doesn’t budge.

“Struggle all you want,” she purrs. She’s kneeling over him from the side, her ankle-length dress hiked up around her knees for maneuverability; he’s just glad it’s still on. Her legs practically shine in the light from the window; no hosiery, just smooth skin, freshly waxed.

The hopelessness settles over Roy once again. She’s too strong to fight off barehanded, and even if she is on orders not to kill him, there are plenty of nonlethal places she could stab or cut him with those fingernails if he were to try to fight back, and he is none too keen to have his memory refreshed of that particular pain. He rubs the tips of his gloved fingers together, feels the friction of the cloth and knows with just a bit more force he can create a spark—but he can’t burn her. He can’t. He doesn’t want to hear Hawkeye scream the way Lust had screamed the first time he killed her. It would break him. There’s nothing to do but lie there as her hands roam his shoulders and her tongue presses hotly against his jugular.

By the time Lust retreats, Roy is half-hard from her ministrations, worked up against his will. She sits up and tosses her hair back, effortlessly attractive in her stolen skin. Roy glares at her coldly, and she smiles.

“What’s the matter Roy?” she taunts in a syrupy voice. “You’ve gotten quiet. It seemed like you were kissing me back for a moment there—where did that go? Don’t you want to try and take charge?”

Roy curls his hands into fists at his sides, grasping at the sheets. “I won’t touch her without her permission. _Hers,_ not yours. I wouldn’t expect you to understand why.”

Lust tilts her head at him, Hawkeye’s straight blonde hair curtaining across her shoulder. She tosses one leg over him, straddling his hips. The friction against the front of his pants starts a warmth in his gut that is further fueled by her hands tracing lightly over his stomach.

“I understand completely, Roy,” Lust murmurs. Her expression is gentle enough to pass as human, but he knows better. “Too weak to take what you want, you wait for it to be given to you, and then you call yourself a gentleman. All men are loathsome creatures, but you’re an interesting breed.”

“No,” he says, firm. “Choice matters. Hers and mine.”

Lust laughs at him and grinds down on the half-mast tent in his pants. “Humans are slaves to their desires. Trust me, I’ve been around a long time. Choices are always ruled by lust in some way, shape, or form, and those who resist their desires die miserable and alone.” Her eyes glitter as she leans over him, and she brushes his lip with her thumb again, almost tenderly. “I respect your fortitude, but your choices have never mattered. You poor, pathetic human.”

She kisses him again, almost sweetly this time. Then she buries her hand in his hair and _pulls_ until he gasps in pain.

“I want to rip you open,” she says, sliding her other hand up his chest. She’s rolling her hips continuously now, rhythmic and hypnotizing. “I could carve such pretty things out of you, Roy. Do you know how beautiful you would be?”

He pulls at the sheets around him and fights to keep still, but the pace she’s setting feels so _good_ even though he doesn’t want it to. He parts his lips to beg her to stop and she covers his mouth with her hand, gripping his face harshly. Nothing about her is human now, a twisted, cruel perversion of Hawkeye’s normally gentle smile is plastered across her face, and there is something _hungry_ in her eyes that is more familiar to Roy than he would freely admit.

He closes his eyes, pretends they aren’t burning, and wishes he were anywhere, anywhere else.

Lust kisses his jaw, hums distractedly, and lets her hands roam lower. When her finger tucks into the waistband of his pajama pants he tenses. To his surprise, she goes rigid as well.

Roy blinks his eyes open and looks at her curiously, anticipation thrumming through him. She’s frozen in place, head bent and arms locked, keeping her hovering above him. Her breathing is so shallow that it’s barely noticeable. Apart from the too-alive temperature of her skin, she could be a statue.

Nervous and unsure, Roy brushes her bangs aside to look at her face, and she’s scowling, eyes unfocused. Then all of a sudden, her eyes snap to his and she yanks back her hands like he’d burned her. Horror and guilt spill onto her face, and Roy’s heart soars momentarily.

“Colonel Mustang, I’m sorry,” Hawkeye blurts, gasping. “I’m so sorry, I’m trying to stop her—I can’t—please forgive me—”

Roy sits up quickly as she shudders, her eyes squeezing shut. “Lieutenant!” he barks, grabbing her shoulders. “Please hang on, stay with me—”

Her eyes open again and it is clearly Lust who looks out at him, the corners of her mouth turning down in dissatisfaction. The change is immediate and jarring, Hawkeye’s horror melting suddenly into Lust’s annoyance, and the homunculus fusses with her bangs for a moment while Roy stares, still holding her shoulders. His throat closes up. Somehow, knowing that Hawkeye is actively fighting Lust’s control is even worse—it means she’s aware on some level what’s happening, and Roy feels violated all over again on her behalf.

“I hate interruptions,” Lust says coolly while she shoves him back down into the pillows with one hand. “But there, see? She’s not dead. And anything you do to me you do to her. Keep that in mind.”

“Stop,” he begs, one more time. “Please. Anything else.”

Lust gives him a smile that is all ice, while her hands burn like brands at the edge of his waistband. “This is what you get,” she says, and her voice _oozes_ with sadistic intent. “This is your punishment, Roy. And I’m going to enjoy every second of your misery.”

He expected that. It does not make the misery easier to bear.

During Ishval, Roy became an expert at distancing himself. He was able to wander the desert, just enough in his own mind to know where he was going and what he was doing, but not enough to feel every second of it. He used to spend days at a time watching himself from the third person as he rained fire and death upon the sand, distancing himself from the smell of broiled flesh and burning hair, from the screaming and explosions. It was the only way to make it survivable. Those days are, in his mind, heavy, hot, and hellish; unforgettable but numb, so numb.

Lust envelops him in her heat and the numbness rises to meet him like an old friend.

He keeps his eyes closed, as far back away from his awareness as he can. Tears leak out of his eyes at some point. From far away he feels her lick them up and laugh. She tries to get him to respond but he is dead, trembling body be damned. Pain and pleasure mix along his spine but his mind is too far away to care. He recites the periodic table of elements in his head. He thinks about what to have for dinner tomorrow night. She uses him and uses him and uses him—

She finishes before he does. He hopes that’s the end of it, but no. She _makes_ him finish, and he is left panting, tangled in his sheets and nauseous while her hands continue to glide across his over-sensitive skin. The only piece of clothing left on him is his single ignition glove. He is slick with a mixture of sweat, blood, and other fluids.

He has a moment of lucidity, and it’s like coming up for air, his personality resurfacing from the depths. It takes him catching a glimpse of her face, her self-satisfied grin and half-lidded eyes, to make him retreat again. He feels dead.

Lust is murmuring something to him, and there is a five second delay between the sound entering his ears and his brain understanding her meaning.

“Exquisite,” is what she says, running her hand through his hair in a gesture that could almost be affectionate. “So exquisite is your suffering, Roy Mustang.”

He doesn’t have the energy to respond or to push her off of him. He is dead.

Then the hand leaves his hair and for a moment there is nothing. Blissful nothing, just the darkness of his eyelids and the numbness in his chest.

Then he hears sobbing, and Roy surfaces again. He opens his eyes and turns over, and Hawkeye is beside him, still in Lust’s dress, shaking and crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeats, over and over. She pushes herself off the bed and collapses beside it instead, her sobs becoming muffled when she buries her face in the mattress.

Roy has never seen Hawkeye cry this hard before. The closest was, ironically, when he had come to save her from Lust the first time. He lifts himself to a sitting position and winces as all the scratches on his torso make themselves known.

“Lieutenant,” he says, voice rough.

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Hawkeye weeps. “Why didn’t you stop her? I tried, I _tried!_ You just _laid there_ and I couldn’t—”

She breaks down again. Roy feels the numbness dissolving and knows he’s about to follow. “I know,” he rasps. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hurt you.”

“But now—now _I’ve_ hurt _you,”_ she gasps, inconsolable.

He hadn’t thought of that.

Lust might as well have actually ripped him open, for how much his heart hurts. He wants to comfort her, but how can he? Would reaching out to touch her make her feel better or worse? Would it make _him_ feel better or worse?

He pulls the sheets tighter around himself and draws his knees upwards. More tears threaten to rise. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, though he knows it won’t amount to much. The effort of expelling the words expels a sob as well, and he lowers his head to hide the water streaming from his eyes.

He thought she’d object for her own sake—that she didn’t want to touch him like that, didn’t want him to violate her. The fact that she was just as desperate to spare him as he had been her made it so much worse. It was the perfect torture: if he didn’t hurt her, she would hurt him, and either way both suffered. Roy bit back another sob building in his lungs. He hadn’t saved Riza any pain by refusing to fight her off; she’d been forced to watch her own body do this to him. By laying there and taking it he’s done something insufferably selfish, and the tide of self-loathing that washes over him at this realization is unbearable.

“God, Hawkeye, I’m so fucking sorry,” he babbles in anguish.

Her cries have quieted down to silent weeping, and when she looks up at him, she’s shaking with anger and despair. “Don’t let her do this again,” Hawkeye whispers. “I’d rather you kill—

“That’s enough, I think.”

She changes mid-sentence, and Roy squeezes his arms around his knees as Lust stands and brushes off her dress.

“Hmm, she went and made my mascara run.” Lust sounds annoyed. She swipes a delicate finger under each eye, clearing away the smeared makeup. When she looks at Roy, he forces his mouth into a hard line and tries not to reveal how broken he feels.

Something about the way she smiles tells him she can sense it anyway. She leans closer, filling him with dread, but she makes no move to touch him, just admires the planes of his face and the dozens of scoremarks she left across his chest and shoulders.

“This was fun,” she purrs. “We should do it again sometime.” Her eyes glitter with a wickedness that does not belong on Hawkeye’s face. She turns and walks to the window, dress swaying with the movement of her hips.

“Goodnight, Roy,” Lust says, and doesn’t wait for an answer before sliding sinuously out the window and vanishing from sight.

Roy sits and breathes until the adrenaline leaves his system. Eventually the smell of sex and blood lingering on and around him brings bile to his mouth, and he stumbles to the bathroom to be sick. He takes a shower so long that the water goes cold towards the end of it, but it isn’t enough to wash away the feeling of her hands on his skin.

From then on, he sleeps on the couch with his gun in his hand.


End file.
